


Cutthroat

by chalicedflowers



Series: 2013 multifandom trope bingo [5]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Competitive Cooking, Enjolras isn't sure why he's here, Everyone is a chef, I really don't know much about cooking, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 00:06:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1113135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chalicedflowers/pseuds/chalicedflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Cutthroat Kitchen AU. Enjolras needs money to be able to open his own restaurant. This cooking show is a quick way to get it, but first he has to beat out the other competitors, who may give him more of a challenge than he bargained for.</p><p>Written for Zoop's 2013 multifandom trope bingo</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cutthroat

**Author's Note:**

> This may be extended into a chaptered work with all the rounds, but for now it's sitting pretty as a one shot. I know very little about the world of professional cooking and I can't remember the last time I made shepherd's pie. Sorry.
> 
> Written for the "food" square on Zoop's 2013 multifandom trope bingo

“In this briefcase I hold one hundred _thousand_ dollars. Each of our four contestants will receive twenty-five thousand to use in auction. But remember, to be able to keep any of the money at the end of the competition you must first survive the challenges, and your competitors. This is Cutthroat Kitchen.”

Enjolras sighed internally at the pompous, overdramatic monologue the host was indulging in. He had been sighing almost all day, from the bitchy, over-the-top introduction he had to give himself to the camera and the pithy one-liners he had been given from the directors to greet his other competitors with. The show was ridiculous, Enjolras was a cook, not an actor. Having to put on a grim, asshole persona in order to gain a few thousand dollars was absolutely ridiculous. He was being judged on how entertaining he was for the cameras, not for his food. But he needed the money if he ever wanted to open his own restaurant with Courfeyrac and Combeferre. It had been a pipe dream of theirs ever since uni, and was one that finally they may be able to make come true. But first they needed money.

The first round seemed easy enough, they just had to make shepherd’s pie, although the meagre minute they had to do all of their shopping was worrying. Enjolras was busy mentally compiling his shopping list and almost missed the start of the shopping period. He managed to grab his bag and sprint into the pantry just behind the other contestants, his list flying out of his head and replaced with a litany of curses as he looked around the chaos.

All the other chefs were dashing about, grabbing whatever they could find in as large quantities as they could carry. Everything was falling off the shelves and being trampled underfoot as people dashed about, and it was utter madness. Enjolras knew exactly what went into a shepherd’s pie but when he looked around the kitchen all he could think of was how utterly ridiculous he was going to look on telly. 

“Fifteen seconds!” 

The time was called and Enjolras was snapped back into himself. He glanced in his basket and all he had was a package of ground beef, some potatoes, peas, carrots, and celery. Only enough for the most basic of dishes. He ran around, grabbing literally everything he could find off the shelves even if he wasn’t planning on using it, and sprinted for the already closing doors. He made it out with barely a second to spare and the host shook his head at him. Enjolras barely managed to bite his tongue, frustrated at this man who seemed so smug after watching four professional chefs run around like children in a toy store. Enjolras walked sullenly back to his station.

“You should work on your time management,” the host said. Enjolras restrained himself to a glare, which was intensified when he heard a snort from the chef at the podium next to his, some dark-haired slob who looked as if he hadn’t seen the better side of a mirror in weeks. What was worse, was that when Enjolras switched his glare to him, his smile seemed to grow even wider. 

_Grantaire_ , his mind reminded him. _Self-taught chef, works in some low-down dive in town_. Enjolras shrugged it off, assured that the man— _Grantaire_ —would be out in the first few rounds. Say whatever they want, self-taught chefs just don’t have the same skills that classically trained chefs have. Enjolras slaved his ass off in culinary school and a succession of kitchens just so that he could claim to be the best. This man barely looked like he could pass a health code inspection.

Enjolras was shocked out of his reverie by the announcement of the first sabotage: the replacement of all an opponent’s meat with tofu. Enjolras wasn’t too worried, the vast majority of his friends were vegetarian or vegan and so he was more than used to cooking with tofu and cooking it well. He decided to save his money and enjoy the looks of strain on his competitors’ faces as they tried to outbid each other to avoid the slab of admittedly unappetising beige tofu. Grantaire didn’t seem stressed, more just enjoying the bidding if the smile on his face was any indication, whereas the other two—Montparnasse, the sous chef at a pretentious French restaurant downtown; and Javert, an older ex-police officer who retired after a climactic end to an unsolved theft case and became a pastry chef with his life-partner—looked as if they would sell their unborn children to make sure they weren’t given that tofu.

“Ten thousand dollars,” Montparnasse said, hitting his cash against the table for emphasis and glaring at Javert, who glared right back but remained silent.

“Ten thousand dollars going once, going twice… Sold, to Montparnasse for ten thousand dollars. Come up here and collect your prize and give me back my money.” Montparnasse strut up to the counter and dropped his money on the table. He picked up the tofu and walked it over to Javert, leaning against the podium with a cocked hip as he dropped it on top of Javert’s basket and took out the lamb Javert had in there already.

“For you, sweetheart,” Montparnasse said, blowing Javert a kiss as he sauntered off with Javert’s lamb, his hips swinging happily and dragging everyone’s attention to the fact that his tight black trousers had a sheen of glitter on them. Enjolras couldn’t help but wonder if the camera would pick it up.

Javert was already fuming when the next sabotage item was announced—the exclusive right to use salt in the cooking. He started the bidding off at five thousand dollars, and proceeded to raise it without hesitation. Enjolras, again, steered clear of the bidding. He had grabbed some bottles of Worchester’s sauce, which would have to do for salt. He had plans for this money and he wasn’t about to waste it.

Grantaire was particularly vocal for this item, his smile gone and replaced with a crease between his brows. The bidding lasted for a while, each competitor finished with raising by the thousands and instead going hundred by hundred. Grantaire won the salt at twelve thousand, one hundred dollars. He looked particularly haggard as he went up to the counter to collect the salts and looked on mournfully as his money was taken away.

The final bidding item was having all of a contestant’s potatoes taken away. Enjolras started the bidding on that one, unwilling to lose one of the most important ingredients in making a shepherd’s pie. The bidding was fierce but with Montparnasse and Grantaire both already out at least ten thousand dollars they quickly dropped out of the auction, watching on nervously as Enjolras and Javert battled it out. Enjolras could feel his face flushing angrily as he stared down the older man, barely letting the man get his bid out before shouting a higher offer. Finally Javert dropped out of the bidding with a mutinous look on his face, staying sullenly silent as Enjolras was announced as the winner of the auction.

Enjolras walked up to the counter, amazed at the fact that he had spent ninety-eight hundred dollars just to protect his potatoes. He handed over the money and was reminded that he also was forced to take away another competitor’s potatoes. That part wasn’t one that Enjolras enjoyed— without potatoes a contestant’s chances of moving on in the competition was pretty much nil. Enjolras enjoyed a competition as much as the next man—maybe even a little bit more—but only when everyone was on equal standing. How could he accept any money from this show when he wouldn’t even be sure if he won on merit or because he had simply stepped on the competition? He walked up to Javert and took his potatoes, hoping that maybe because the man was a pastry chef he would be able to turn the shepherd’s pie into a pot pie dish. He wanted to win through the taste and presentation of his dishes, not because he crippled his competitors by taking away their ingredients. He avoided Javert’s glare and hurried back to his podium just before the cooking time began. 

All four competitors grabbed their baskets and ran to their stations, pulling their ingredients from the baskets almost before they hit the tabletops. Enjolras immediately set his potatoes boiling, deciding that dirty mashed potatoes would have to do if he didn’t want to waste the time peeling them. He watched as Montparnasse beside him set about meticulously peeling all of his potatoes before boiling them, wasting precious minutes that could be better served cooking his meat. Enjolras could concede, however, that the other man’s dish was going to end up a lot more polished than his own. While his potatoes boiled he set about chopping his vegetables and lining everything up in the order he would need them. He threw the vegetables into a saucepan with butter to sauté and added the ground beef. He left that to cook as he took the potatoes off the heat and drained them, and alternated between stirring his meat and mashing his potatoes. He drained the fat from his meat and added the rest of the ingredients in the filling and left it to simmer as he ran back to his potatoes, tossing in some butter and cream to keep them from getting too hard. He went back and put the meat in the oven to cook for a bit before he could put the potatoes on and cook it again. His only worry was that the lack of salt may make his dish too bland but he compensated for that as best he could with different herbs and spices and his Worchester’s sauce. 

He allowed himself a moment to breathe, to come back into himself from wherever it was he went when he was cooking. The first thing to filter back in was the noise, the chefs bantering back and forth, the sizzle of everybody’s meat, and the commentary of the host. Apparently while Enjolras had been cooking he had missed another auction item, the necessity to do all of the cooking on a camper stove. A grumpy-looking Montparnasse was currently trying to simmer his filling in a pot that was far too big for the camper stove to support, so he was forced to balance that with one hand as he attempted to mash his potatoes with the other. Javert seemed to be struggling with his dish, and Enjolras felt a rush of pity. It was impossible to fully show what you can do when all of the necessary ingredients for a dish have been taken from you. He had decided to go with the pot pie form, and was currently making the cover for his dish.

Grantaire was—well he was magic. Enjolras firmly believed that while self-taught chefs have the capacity to be amazing they can never reach their full potential but Grantaire… He glided from the burners to the counter with impeccable grace, he never stopped or stumbled or moved anything but elegantly. It was like watching a choreographed dance the way he moved in the kitchen, playing with everything and finely tuning it in a way that made him seem like a part of the kitchen itself. Enjolras may have been wrong when he thought the other man wouldn’t be a threat. Grantaire caught him watching and winked.

“See something you like, Apollo?”

Enjolras jerked to attention and scowled. “You wish. I’ve been plating food for professional kitchens for years now, and whatever is on that plate is nowhere near my standards.”

“I meant me, but whatever floats your boat.” Grantaire shrugged, turning back to his plate. Enjolras thought that was the end of it and was about to turn back to his oven to remove the filling when Grantaire knocked over a spoon. He bent down to pick it up, his black cotton trousers stretching tight across his ass. Although Grantaire was definitely not a looker, in the kitchen he was a sight to see and in those trousers he was something that Enjolras wanted very badly to touch. Grantaire stood back up, looked over his shoulder, and winked. Enjolras yanked his filling out of the oven.

He began piling on the potatoes just as the five minute mark was called, signalling the start of a series of very inventive curses from the chefs. He quickly grated some cheese on top of the potatoes and threw it in the oven, using the time he had to set up his plates. By the time the cheese had properly melted the other chefs were almost finishing their plating, He ran to his station and quickly dropped the shepherd’s pie onto the plate, glad he had set out the garnishes beforehand. The food had barely touched the plate before the host called time and Enjolras had to step away from his food.

He looked at the other chef’s dishes; Javert had his tofu pot pie and was standing behind it with his jaw set and his head held high. His hands were clenched into fists behind his back and Enjolras felt a rush of pity for him. He wasn’t making it to the next round, he never had a chance. Montparnasse’s promisingly attractive dish fell into disarray, the potatoes were just thrown on the top of the filling which was spilling out from the sides. In contrast to Javert, Montparnasse was casually leaning against his station, his entire body the picture of affected unconcern. His pants glittered in the light. Grantaire’s dish looked the best of the others, well put together and he had the time to clean up the drips on his plate, which Enjolras himself didn’t get to do. He was standing behind his dish, looking casual but nervous. His hands rested on the tabletop and he drummed his fingers in a nonsensical rhythm.

“Now that you’ve all made me some delicious shepherd’s pie, it’s time to introduce out judge. But remember, the judge doesn’t know what you lot have done to each other, and nor will she ever. Now for our judge, food critic and renowned chef, Eponine Thenardier,” the host announced. 

Eponine strode down the stairs, her young face serious. Enjolras had seen her before at various functions and had followed her career avidly. They had a mutual acquaintance in Marius Pontmercy and Enjolras always liked to see how other young people were making it in his industry. She nodded tightly at the host, eschewing the traditional friendly chit chat between host and judge which Enjolras highly approved of. This girl was down to business.

“We have some shepherd’s pie for you to try today,” the host said, a little thrown off by Eponine’s brusque manner.

“Lead the way,” she said.

She was led first to Javert’s plate. She looked at it doubtfully before breaking open the pot pie with her fork and taking a bite. She chewed for a while and her face twisted.

“Javert, this is really… This can’t be classified as a shepherd’s pie. While I appreciate the attempt to provide a vegetarian option with the tofu, there’s just really no flavour to it. Tofu is wonderful in that it’s like a sponge to absorb flavour and you really didn’t take advantage of that. There’s also a severe lack of salt, it’s just bland.” She poked at the pastry with her fork. “While the pastry is really well done, this is definitely not a shepherd’s pie. I don’t understand why you chose to eschew the potatoes altogether and replace it with a pastry. It just really doesn’t work for this dish.”

Javert nodded, his eyes focused on some point above Eponine’s head and his body language as tense as ever. Enjolras felt for the guy, he had no opportunity to truly show what he could do and was instead forced to make a shepherd’s pie without the major ingredients. Eponine moved on to Montparnasse and Enjolras’ heart started to pound as he waited for his turn.

Montparnasse stared coolly at Eponine as she tried his pie, and Enjolras could see the anticipation on his face as she took a second bite.

“Your meat is cooked really well, really nicely, but you have the same problem of under seasoning that Javert had. It’s like nobody in this kitchen knows what salt is.” Grantaire turned away to hide a smirk. “But the rest of the flavours work really nicely, I like the combination of vegetables, and the potatoes are nice and light. That said, my potatoes are cold. Did you bake the potatoes with the meat after you put them on?”

“No,” Montparnasse said shortly, fidgeting towards the camp stove hidden by his foot.

“That was a mistake. The potatoes are cold and the meat is hot and the contrasting temperatures just don’t really work for me. I’m sorry.”

Eponine moved on to Enjolras’ station. He attempted a smile that even to himself felt more like a grimace. She looked at him blandly, took a bite of his pie, and made a noise of frustration.

“Again, you’re missing the salt. I don’t understand how professional chefs can forget about salt. Besides that, this is good. Your meat is a little overcooked but the sauce is great, it’s really fresh and there are a lot of fresh herbs in it which I like. Your potatoes are cooked perfectly and I like the cheese on the top. Really your main problem is the lack of salt in the dish.”

Enjolras breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn’t kicked off this round and he still had twenty-five thousand dollars left to take home. He barely paid attention to Eponine’s critique of Grantaire’s dish beyond her appreciation for the presence of salt, but he noticed that she seemed a lot more excited about Grantaire’s dish than any of the others.

(“ _Beer_ ,” he heard her exclaim. “It just absolutely makes this dish. I love it.”)

He had to think tactically. Javert was gone, no doubt about it. Montparnasse, if left un-sabotaged, would prove to be a difficult competitor. Grantaire though, he was showing himself to be a dark horse. The only self-taught chef in the competition with low credentials, but somehow he was proving himself to be a more than worthy adversary. He caught Grantaire’s eye again as Eponine and the host were talking. Grantaire winked at him and he flushed and looked away. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a camera zoom in on him.

“Eponine, now that you’ve had time to think about it, it’s time to decide who will be going home.”

Eponine sighed. “While all of the dishes had pros and cons, there was just one plate that didn’t fulfill the basic requirements for me. Chef Javert, I’m afraid you’re going home.”

Javert nodded and packed up, avoiding eye contact with everyone as he dropped his money on the counter and strode off. The host blinked at this sudden departure but shook it off, leading Eponine once more off set. The three remaining chefs were given some downtime as set hands cleaned up their stations. Enjolras twitched, he hated other people cleaning up messes he had made, but he let it go and followed the other two into a small partitioned off area they had been given as a break room. Once they were alone, Montparnasse immediately flopped into a chair and lit a cigarette.

“Thank god the old man is gone. Did you see him walking around like he had some huge stick up his ass.” Montparnasse kicked a chair closer to Grantaire. “Of course, from what I hear of his partner he’s no stranger to that.”

Enjolras started. “How on earth could you know that?”

“I have my sources,” Montparnasse said, tapping his nose. “And they ain’t your business, pretty boy.”

“Says the man in sparkly trousers.”

“Says the man who doesn’t mooch off his parent’s money. Why’re you even on this show, parents cut you off?” Montparnasse leaned forward, his eyes sparkling menacingly.

“Okay everybody back off. Enjolras is filthy rich and you know a scary amount of things about us. Now that we have that settled, can I bum a smoke off you?” Grantaire dropped down into the seat Montparnasse kicked out for him and grabbed a cigarette from Montparnasse’s outstretched hand. Enjolras stayed standing, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot.

“I never even mentioned what I know about you,” Montparnasse said, leaning closer to Grantaire. His eyes glittered but there was something different in the way he looked at Grantaire. Something hungry.

Grantaire laughed, but there was something tight about it. “I’m an open book. So disreputable to be reputable, you could say. There’s probably nothing you could say that could embarrass me.”

“So if I told pretty boy here what you did after seeing him for the first time—”

Grantaire leapt to his feet, his face white. “Don’t you dare.”

“Relax, I wouldn’t. A prude like him wouldn’t know what to do with that information anyway.” Montparnasse dragged his eyes up and down Grantaire’s body appreciatively. “I, on the other hand…”

“Sorry, not interested.” Grantaire sank back into his chair, his teeth worrying the cigarette’s filter.

Enjolras got the distinct impression the two had forgotten about him, both chefs dropping into a contemplative silence. He didn’t want to draw attention back to himself, uncomfortable around Montparnasse and too curious about Grantaire for his own good. He waited instead, staying still and listening for the call that they would be needed back in the main hall. The call came and Montparnasse was the first out of the door, leaving Enjolras and Grantaire alone in the room. Enjolras, expecting to be ignored, turned to leave but Grantaire caught him by the shirtsleeve.

“Listen, I don’t like that guy,” Grantaire whispered. “I know you don’t like me particularly either but I think we should try to get him out this round.”

Enjolras stared. “Aren’t partnerships disallowed?”

“Unless you want him to have a chance of walking out of here with the money. What do you say?”

“I don’t think you’re allowed to smoke in here,” Enjolras said dumbly. Grantaire’s mouth tightened and he nodded, stamping out the cigarette beneath his toe. He brushed past Enjolras and headed back to the kitchen.

Enjolras took a breath and followed, squinting as the bright lights of the kitchen shone in his eyes. Showtime.


End file.
